Chapter 36
Elena
I woke before dawn, body clock still synced to training schedules despite last night's late conversation with Uncle Étienne on the terrace. The memory settled warm in my chest as I pulled on my pale gray athletic set and twisted my hair into a high ponytail, the familiar ritual grounding me after weeks of feeling unmoored by his distance.
When I came down to the dining room, Mrs. Blake had already brewed coffee. She smiled as she poured me a cup, and I'd just wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic when Uncle Étienne appeared in the doorway, dressed in dark training gear that made him look less like the suited executive I was used to and more like someone who understood the body's capacity for both strength and surrender.
"Good morning," he said, and something in his voice was different this morning—softer, less guarded—as his eyes lingered on my face with an attention that made heat climb up my neck.
"Morning, Uncle," I replied, and watched the way his jaw tightened slightly at the title, the way his fingers flexed around his coffee cup as if he wanted to reach for something but was restraining himself.
He moved closer, leaning against the counter beside me rather than maintaining his usual careful distance, close enough that I could smell the cedar and citrus of his cologne mixed with something warmer, more essentially him. "I was planning to use the gym this morning," he said, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. "Would you like to join me?"
The invitation felt weighted with something beyond simple exercise, and I found myself nodding, acutely aware of how his gaze tracked the movement of my throat as I swallowed, the way his eyes dropped briefly to my lips before returning to meet mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.
We walked together through the side courtyard, and the space between us felt charged, electric. Every accidental brush of his arm against mine sent sparks through my skin, and I caught him glancing down at me with an expression I couldn't quite read—something hungry and conflicted and carefully controlled.
In the gym, I began my warm-up while Uncle Étienne settled onto the treadmill, but I could feel his eyes on me constantly, tracking every movement with an attention that went beyond professional interest. When I moved through my conditioning circuit—plank holds, reverse rows, box jumps—I was hyperaware of his gaze, the way it made my skin feel too warm, too sensitive.
"Your form is remarkable," he said during my rest interval, and his voice had gone rough around the edges. "The control you have over your body is extraordinary."
Something in the way he said "your body" made my pulse spike, and when I looked up at him, he was closer than I'd expected, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Coach Laroche says I still have a long way to go," I managed, my voice coming out breathier than intended.
"Coach Laroche is a perfectionist," Uncle Étienne replied, and his hand came up as if to touch my face before he caught himself, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. "You're already perfect."
The word hung between us, loaded with meaning, and I watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard, watched the way his pupils dilated as I unconsciously leaned toward him.
"Show me the weighted lunges," he said abruptly, stepping back, and I could hear the strain in his voice, the effort it took to maintain distance.
I demonstrated the exercise, and when I handed him the weights, our fingers brushed and lingered a beat too long. He moved through the lunges with surprising competence despite his right leg, and I found myself staring at the way his muscles flexed, the sheen of sweat on his throat, the focused intensity of his expression.
"You're quite strong," I said, and the compliment came out softer, more admiring than I'd intended.
His eyes snapped to mine, dark and heated. "Not as strong as I'd like to be," he said quietly, and something in his tone suggested he wasn't talking about physical strength at all.
The air between us felt thick, charged with tension, and I was about to say something—I don't even know what—when I caught sight of the red cloth on the peach tree outside, and my body locked up with instinctive fear.
The dumbbell slipped from my fingers, and Uncle Étienne moved with startling speed, his hand closing around my wrist while his other arm came around my waist, pulling me flush against his body. For a moment we were pressed together, chest to chest, his heart hammering against mine, his breath warm against my temple, and I felt him shudder slightly before he seemed to catch himself.
"What happened?" His voice was rough, strained. "Are you hurt?"
"The red cloth," I whispered, and I didn't step away, couldn't step away, my body melting into his warmth. "On the tree."
His arm tightened around my waist for just a fraction of a second—a possessive, protective gesture that had nothing to do with steadying me—before he loosened his grip. "You're frightened of it," he said, not a question, and his thumb was tracing small circles on the inside of my wrist where my pulse raced.
"Yes," I breathed, and when I looked up at him, his face was so close I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across my lips.
"Come with me," he said softly, and his hand slid down to lace his fingers through mine, palm to palm, intimate and claiming. "Let me show you there's nothing to fear."
We walked out into the courtyard, and he didn't let go of my hand, his thumb stroking over my knuckles in a rhythm that felt almost unconscious, and I was acutely aware of how perfectly our hands fit together, how natural it felt to walk beside him like this.